


A Snowy First Kiss

by josiemoone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiemoone/pseuds/josiemoone
Summary: After a snowy Quidditch practise, Harry contemplates giving into the feelings he’s been wrestling with. Will they be reciprocated?





	A Snowy First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leontina Bowie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Leontina+Bowie).



> I’ve changed this a little to make it January snow rather than Christmas, just because of the time I’m posting it on here. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta LeanaM, you’re amazing and I adore you. To Leontinabowie, I hope that you enjoy this. I really wanted to make sure you had something that was true to these characters.  
> Thank you for Rare Pair Shorts for letting me be apart of this!

He _couldn't_ take his eyes off him, even if he tried.  
  
Sweat was clinging for dear life on the ends of his hair, perspiration freezing his face. He could watch him for hours, the way his hands gripped the wood beneath him; the way he commanded the field, making everyone else bow to him without ever asking them to. He owned this place, and Harry stood, watching breathlessly, unsure if he could fight the feeling he had been wrestling for weeks. As soon as Harry watched his feet plant on the grass, the others that he hadn’t been watching–but should have been–following suit, he awoke from his daydream, seeing the snow falling around him, landing in chunks against the green.  
  
The blizzard was raging over the large Quidditch rings, making it hard for him to see all three of them–even though they were mounted so high. All Harry could focus on was the weight of his heart that kept his feet planted in the frozen grass, forcing him not to walk to the showers like the rest of the players; he was the assistant coach, he needed to assist the players, be there for them before, during, and after practise, not ogle the coach. It didn’t matter what Harry should have done because he turned to look at Harry–right from across the pitch–and Harry felt his throat tighten, unable to breathe, unable to turn from them as they stared into him.  
  
His palms were sweaty, even in the freezing temperature. A tingle spread up his spine, just as it always did when those eyes met Harry’s. He could never be cold when he was in the presence of that man.  
  
Years ago, Harry wouldn’t have dreamed about him–he was his coach, and that was it. Years, however, had been even kinder to the both of them; they had both grown up, both needed to find a piece of happiness in the bleak leftovers of the war. Thankfully, somehow, it had brought them back here, to this grass, to these six rings in the sky; to the castle Harry called home, to the game that had made him feel like someone, to the broom that made him forget he had been something.  
  
Harry had promised himself, that’s all he repeated to himself as he rolled his thumb against his fingers. He promised himself at New Year as he had cheered with everyone; Harry promised himself in the Great Hall this morning—after an agonising four months of working with Oliver—that the next time he’d enter for his evening meal, Harry have kissed him. He hated how idiotic he could be, as if a promise would help him unload the words he had on the tip of his tongue for months–the feelings that had clung to the roof of his mouth, unable to speak them.  
  
“Y’alright, Harry?”  
  
That accent, that face, _smile_ …Harry was doomed, although he was sure he had been since the moment he stood before him, older, broader, as McGonagall reintroduced them–as though either could forget.  
  
He began to cross the pitch, and Harry urged his brain to kick in to make himself move, instead of being stuck here, reminiscing, lost in the past and the present.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
“Ye-ah. _Yeah_ ,” Harry said, closing his fist as he took in a large breath. “Just waiting for you.”  
  
He tried to smile, tried to be inconspicuous, hoping to hide the raging war inside of him. Harry had no idea if he was succeeding, but he assumed, noticing the pensieve look in Oliver’s brown eyes–the look that ignited a fire within his chest.  
  
“Actually,” Harry said, clearing his throat and raising his arm, using his hand to brush the snow from the top of his own head. “There _was_ something.”  
  
Harry watched those eyes suddenly noticing a spark, a spec of something not usually there; the same one he had seen weeks ago–but Harry had convinced himself that he imagined it. It was here now, however, bold, not shying away from Harry at all. He was sure that Oliver could hear his heart hammering against his chest, but for once, and only once, he didn’t care.  
  
Harry had faced Voldemort; he had gone up against three-headed dogs, snakes, apparent murderers, a maze that was out to get him and a billion other insane things. He could get past this because while this could hurt him more than any of those things, it was worth the risk.  
  
“Merry... _January_ ,” Harry said, and before anything else could be said, or another beat of his heart could puncture the moment, Harry closed the gap between them, and he kissed him.  
  
Oliver's cold lips met the warmth of Harry's, the temperature twitching between them, unable to remain cold like the environment around them. Harry guided his hand into Oliver's curls, brushing past the bright pink ear that was as cold as ice, hoping his palm would warm it. Their lips touched against each other once more, more purposeful, both relaxing against the other–and Harry felt his heart slow to a more normal pace, everything in him became warm–as though they were in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room.  
  
“Harry,” Oliver whispered, breaking their lips, but clutching his cheeks. He looked baffled, utterly confused–not that Harry could blame him.  
  
For once, Harry swallowed the anxious thoughts that would ruin this moment, and instead dove as though Oliver was the snitch. “I like you, Oliver. I have liked you for...ages, and I just had to do _something_ –”  
  
Oliver closed the gap, kissing away words, letting them drift away from Harry’s lips like the snow falling around them. It was more urgent, a voice to the kiss that reciprocated everything Harry was feeling, everything he wanted to say but knew he would be unable to–yet, anyway.  
  
“I like you too, if that wasn’t clear,” Oliver laughed, pressing soft butterfly kisses to Harry’s mouth. “I didn’t know...I didn’t want to risk you leaving Hogwarts if I... _acted_.”  
  
Harry ran his thumb over Oliver’s cheek, wondering if he was as romantic as he hoped, or if he was just awkward–he really wished he wasn’t the latter, not after the build up, not after waiting so long.  
  
"All I know is no matter how far away I get, this place calls me back. Hogwarts is always home," Harry said, his eyes scanning Oliver's eyes. "I didn't think twice about taking McGonagall up on her offer, and it would take a lot to drive me away from it."  
  
Oliver smiled, softly, perfectly, apparently content with the answer until he thought of something that made his eyes widen. “I was your coach! Is this...–”  
  
“Years ago. Ten, to be exact, Oliver,” Harry said, finding a voice of reason in him that felt foreign. “You’re not… _whatever_ you’re worrying about.”  
  
Oliver slowly grinned, it was beautiful—and it caused Harry’s heart to jump to his throat.

“I’m glad you took McGonagall’s offer,” Oliver said, sounding more relaxed again. “She’s never been wrong about you.”  
  
“Neither have you.”

* * *

 


End file.
